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by booksblanketsandtea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 03:55:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9366932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/booksblanketsandtea/pseuds/booksblanketsandtea
Summary: It took months to restore 221B to a liveable state - but Sherlock was right.Baker Street has always been home.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The first in a series of one-shots I'll be doing, all in one universe.

It took months to restore 221B to a liveable state. First, the charred knickknacks and odd assortment of items Sherlock had collected over the years had to be cleared out; some things were salvageable, but not much. The books had burnt to ash. The skull had been blown off the mantelpiece and lay in crisp black shards of bone on the floor. The chairs – their chairs were nothing more than soot infested shapes that only vaguely resembled the places they once sat. The kitchen, of course, was a hazardous landscape of blackened glass.

  
The first time back in 221B after the explosion, Sherlock had picked up the cattle skull and held it as he looked around the destroyed room. There was something sad in his eyes that John didn’t like – so he picked up the blackened headphones and hooked them back into place on the skull. Sherlock gave a weak smile and after a moment they turned back to the room, almost unsure where to start.

  
It took Sherlock, John, a few friends and a number of Sherlock’s homeless network the better part of two weeks to go through it all. Near the end, Sherlock was simply shovelling the destroyed memorabilia into large trash bags, the odd item crumbling to soot under his hand as he went.

 

  
The scent of char hung heavy on their clothes and hands for weeks after.

 

Once the flat had been cleared of debris, Mrs Hudson began having the construction crews in – strengthening what could be saved, tearing away and rebuilding what could not.  The sounds of hard labour could be heard throughout the day as the builders went about their business.

Mrs Turner of next door thought briefly to complain about the noise, but after recalling an incident with the bins a few years past, decided that perhaps she would let it go, just this once.

 

While Sherlock’s room had suffered very little damage compared to the kitchen and living area, John had taken one look at the damage on that first visit back, and proclaimed “Go pack a bag, you’re moving in while this is all sorted.”

Sherlock had not said a word, simply stared at the destruction around him a moment longer before nodding and going to his room.

His violin sat in its case on his bed where he had left it before – well. _Before_.

The tune of Eurus’ song rang in his ears and Sherlock shut the case lid swiftly, a wave of nausea rising in him at the sight of the instrument.

Sherlock ignored it while he packed, and despite tucking it out of sight in his wardrobe at Baker street, it somehow still ended up on the guest bed at the Watson home.

John shrugged when asked about it.

“It’s still yours, Sherlock. Don’t let her take that from you. Besides,” the doctor added with a small smile. “Rosie goes out like a light when you play.”

 

 

It had been strange at first – living with John someplace that wasn’t 221B. Mary’s presence was still floating around the flat; faint whiffs of Claire de la lune and items of interest that were never John’s were scattered here and there.

 

He still wore his wedding ring.

A reminder.

Sentiment or guilt, Sherlock could never quite tell.

 

 

Once the structural integrity of 221B had been confirmed, it was time for decorating. Mrs Hudson came over to the Watson home one afternoon with a plate of scones and a number of pamphlets from various home renovation stores. Paints, wallpapers, light fittings, appliances – John’s coffee table was shortly covered with booklets and crumbs (Sherlock had pounced on the date scones and, as usual, wasn’t bothering to finish chewing before he spoke).

“No, no don’t be stupid– unless you’re _intending_  for it to look like a 40’s suburban dentist’s office then that colouring is all wrong. No, I refuse to live in a home with pastel orange walls.”

“You’re not actually obligated to move back, you know dear,” Mrs Hudson said as she un-crumpled the colour sample Sherlock had compressed into a small, screwed up ball.

Sherlock blinked at her, surprised.

“But 221B is home.”

Mrs Hudson paused before moving to gently pat Sherlock’s hand.

“Quite right. It’s _your_ home love – why don’t you pick something out?” And she dumped a number of booklets onto Sherlock’s lap.

While Mrs Hudson and John caught up over tea, Sherlock sorted through the leaflets like a hurricane, rapidly circling various trappings with a sharpie, sitting back after about ten minutes with a satisfied nod.

“Here. _This_ is what you want.”

Mrs Hudson peered over Sherlock’s shoulder and after a second gave an amused titter, hugging the detective around the shoulders briefly. Sherlock took another large bite of his scone, a smile quirking at the corner of his mouth.

It was only when John spotted a familiar wallpaper pattern that he realised Sherlock had simply chosen the latest versions of the old furnishings of 221B. His heart swelled with affection for the detective, and he and Mrs Hudson shared a look of fond exasperation over Sherlock’s head.

The day the wallpaper went up, John went and bought a can of yellow spray paint.

 

 

When at last 221B had been completely refurbished – from the windows to the floors to the two new chairs sitting in front of the restored fireplace – Sherlock and John stood in the living room at 221B in silence. Rosie chattered happily from her place on the couch. Sherlock’s travel bag and violin case sat beside the door, Rosie’s nappy bag beside them.

“Well,” John said eventually. “I can safely say this is the cleanest 221B has ever been.”

“Ha, ha,” Sherlock drawled sarcastically, and Rosie blew a raspberry, a bit of dribble bubbling merrily from the corner of her mouth. Sherlock shot her an amused look and John rolled his eyes, more than used to the two of them teaming up on him by now.

“Still can’t quite figure how _you’re_ the favourite,” John grumbled good naturedly as he moved into the kitchen to make a cuppa. Mrs Hudson had come up yesterday while they were finishing off moving the furniture in, holding a grocery bag in each hand – “just the essentials, mind, and I won’t be doing your shopping for you again, dear!”

John quite likes the new kitchen in 221B. It’s all very swish (Mrs Hudson obviously wasn’t kidding about having some serious money stashed away) and John lets his eye wander over the clean, dark lines of the bench and the gleaming new appliances as the kettle begins to bubble.

In the lounge, Sherlock is murmuring to Rosie in French. One of these days, John’s going to record the detective and get Greg to translate for him.

John opens the cupboard above the kettle, half expecting to find new lab equipment – he is instead pleasantly surprised, if confused, to only find four mismatched coffee cups and two clear drinking glasses. The kettle clicks off behind him as he searches through the cupboards for some tea. It is as he’s searching through the drawers for a tea spoon that he realises just how sparse the kitchen is.

And how _normal_.

John checks again, opening all the cupboards and drawers, and then the fridge (grabbing the milk). Sure enough – not a single beaker, Bunsen burner or body part.

 

Tea made and milk back in the near-empty fridge, John re-enters the lounge. Sherlock is now holding Rosie, who is shrieking in delight as she does her best to tug on his curls – a favourite pastime of hers. John chuckles and places Sherlock’s cuppa on the coffee table.

“God knows how I’m going to handle Rosie without your curls and violin to distract her.”

“Ah,” says Sherlock as he gently unwinds Rosie’s little fingers from his hair with a slight wince. “I’ve actually been meaning to talk to you about that.”

“About what?” John asks, grabbing Rosie’s favourite teddy from her nappy bag and giving it to her as Sherlock sets her down on the couch beside him, dark (slightly frazzled) curls now safely out of reach. Rosie begins to chew on her teddy’s ear, looking between Sherlock and John with wide eyes from her place tucked against the detective’s side.

 

“I want you to move in with me.” Sherlock says, and John raises his eyebrows, shocked.

“What?”

“Move back in with me.” Sherlock repeats, and John can’t help it - he laughs. The detective frowns, hurt, and John rushes to clarify.

“Sherlock, I can’t. I- it’s not just me anymore, remember?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, one large hand resting gently against Rosie’s side.

“I would hardly expect that you leave Rosie behind. She has a place here. You _both_ do.”

“Sherlock you keep livers next to the leftovers, you stab the mail with a bowie knife and half the time the kitchen is a chemistry lab.”

Despite his words, John doesn’t sound certain. He sounds like he is reminding himself, more than anyone, that 221B isn’t exactly child friendly.

“Easily fixed. I’ve rented 221C.” Sherlock says calmly, picking up Rosie’s teddy where she’s thrown it onto his lap (good hand eye coordination).

“What?”

“From Mrs Hudson. I’ve rented 221C – she had it fixed up while the contractors were in, and I thought- well. It would be better to have all my lab equipment in one area, and the kitchen was always a bit too small for a proper lab, anyway.”

John stares at the detective.

“Sherlock- that’s. That’s a very nice gesture, but you can’t be serious. Having a child around- it’d be impossible for you to work.”

“I’m always up for a challenge. Besides, Rosie is very intelligent, she’s already trained you to pick out her favourite flavoured baby food.”

“What?”

“Never mind, ignore that. I promised her I wouldn’t tattle. What else?”

“No, wait – what?”

Sherlock stares pointedly and John sighs, moving to sit on the couch on the other side of his daughter, Sherlock catching his eye over Rosie’s head.

“Sherlock – it’s not that I don’t want to-”

“Then _do_.”

“But think about this for a second. Please, really think. If we moved in, you wouldn’t be able to – to shoot the wall at two in the morning, or play your violin at all hours. How would it look in front of clients?”

Sherlock sighs and stands, stepping over the coffee table and moving to pace around the room.

“You don’t understand, I don’t- that’s not important, that’s not what matters!”

“Then what does matter?”

“You!” Sherlock growl, turning to glare at John. Their eyes lock for a brief moment before the detective looks away with a huff. After a second Sherlock continues in a calmer tone, refusing to meet John’s eye.

“You and Rosie. You- _matter_. To me.”

John feels his chest constrict and he makes himself look down at his daughter, who is watching Sherlock pace with avid curiosity. Feeling her father’s gaze, she turns her little head and looks up at John with a smile. John finds himself returning his daughter’s grin without even thinking about it, and when he looks back up Sherlock is staring at them with an expression that almost shocks John.

Sherlock’s mask is back up in no time at all, but John has a very good memory and he knows he won’t soon forget the look of helpless affection that had been spread across Sherlock’s face just now.

“With kids, you don’t have any space, they take over everything Sherlock. We’d be invading your home-”

“ _Wrong_.” Sherlock snaps. “For God’s sakes, John how can you be so willfully blind about this?” at John’s warning look Sherlock groans and scrubs a hand over his face before waving vaguely at their surroundings. “It’s not- it’s just. Things. Walls. _Stuff_. Without- you. Without Rosie.”

John stares at Sherlock until the detective harrumphs and steps over the coffee table again, coming to sit on the table in front of the two Watsons.

“I know you think I haven’t thought this through, but I _have_. And I know it’ll mean some changes, but,” Sherlock shrugs, and Rosie waves a clumsy hand at him. The detective’s expression softens, the usually harsh lines of his face gentled by utter adoration, and John thinks suddenly, _‘He really wants this. He really wants us both to stay.’_

 

The doctor is silent as he watches Sherlock watch Rosie, and it takes the detective a few moments to realise he is being observed. The high apples of his cheeks stain pink and he scowls.

“What?”

“You’re sure about this.”

Sherlock nods immediately.

“Absolutely.”

“You really want us to move in.”

“ _Yes._ ”

Sherlock’s face is earnest and hopeful and John finds that, as ever, he can’t quite say no to him.

(As ever, doesn’t _want_ to say no to him.)

 

John allows his eyes to track over Sherlock’s face looking for any sign of hesitation before he lets out a breath he didn’t quite realise he was holding.

“Okay. Okay then.”

Sherlock _beams_ , and again – just as with Rosie – John finds himself helplessly returning the grin without quite having made the decision to do so.

Rosie gurgles happily and Sherlock immediately swoops down and lifts her into his arms – he lifts her higher than necessary and she shrieks with joy as Sherlock chatters to her rapidly.

“Tu entends ça Rosie? Ton papa rentre à la maison! Et toi aussi!”  
 

John sits and watches them, and he can feel his heart swelling in his chest at the sight of his best friend and his daughter like this. They're happy, and _home_ , and-

And he takes a deep breath.

 

It’s dangerous, this thing blossoming in his chest.

 

He knows it’s dangerous.

 

But Sherlock was right – Baker Street has always been home, and as two of his favourite people smile at him, John can’t help but be bolstered.

 

It’s not like he’s ever shied away from danger before.

He’ll handle it.

 

He will.

**Author's Note:**

> Translation:
> 
> "Tu entends ça Rosie? Ton papa rentre à la maison! Et toi aussi!” = Do you hear that Rosie? Your Dad is coming home! And you, too!
> 
> (apologies for the terrible translation, I'm using the internet and my vague memories of high school French).
> 
> Edit: thanks to Juj for the proper translation! :)


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